‘What’s up?’ the boy asked in a lazy drawl.
‘You are, by the look of things.’ Rebus walked to the window and angled his head out. A thin wisp of smoke was coming from the bush immediately below. ‘Hope there wasn’t too much of it left.’
‘Too much of what?’ The voice was educated, Home Counties.
‘Whatever it is you call it — draw, blaw, wacky baccy, weed...’ Rebus smiled. ‘But the last thing I want to do is go back downstairs, retrieve the spliff, check the saliva on the cigarette papers for DNA, and come all the way back up here to arrest you.’
‘Didn’t you hear? Grass has been decriminalised.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Downgraded — there’s a difference. Still, you’ll be allowed a phone call to your parents — that’s one law they’ve yet to tinker with.’ He looked around the room: single bed, with a rumpled duvet on the floor beside it; shelves of books; a laptop computer on a desk. Posters advertising drama productions.
‘You like the theatre?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve done a bit of acting — student productions.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You know Kate?’
‘Yeah.’ The student was switching off the machine attached to the earphones. Siobhan, Rebus guessed, would know what it was. All he could tell was that it was too small to play CDs.
‘Know where we could find her?’
‘What’s she done?’
‘She hasn’t done anything; we just need a word.’
‘She’s not here much... probably in the library.’
‘John...’ This from Edmunds, who was holding open the door, allowing a view of the corridor. A dark-skinned young woman, her tightly curled hair held back in a band, was unlocking the door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, curious about the scene in her neighbour’s room.
‘Kate?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Yes. What is the matter?’ Her accent gave each syllable equal stress.
‘I’m a police officer, Kate.’ Rebus had stepped into the corridor. Edmunds let the door swing shut on the male student, dismissing him. ‘Mind if we have a word?’
‘My God, is it my family?’ Her already wide eyes grew wider still. ‘Has something happened to them?’ The satchel slid from her shoulder to the ground.
‘It’s nothing to do with your family,’ Rebus assured her.
‘Then what...? I do not understand.’
Rebus reached into his pocket, produced the tape in its little clear box. He gave it a rattle. ‘Got a cassette player?’ he asked.
When the tape had finished playing, she raised her eyes towards his.
‘Why do you make me listen to this?’ she asked, voice trembling.
Rebus was standing against the wardrobe, hands behind his back. He’d asked Andy Edmunds to wait outside, which hadn’t pleased the security man. Partly, Rebus hadn’t wanted him to hear — this was a police inquiry, and Edmunds was no longer a cop, whatever he might like to think. Partly also — and this was the argument Rebus would use to Edmunds’s face — there simply wasn’t room for the three of them. Rebus didn’t want to make things any less comfortable for Kate. The cassette radio sat on her desk. Rebus leaned towards it, hitting ‘stop’ and then ‘rewind’.
‘Want to hear it again?’
‘I do not see what it is you want me to do.’
‘We think she’s from Senegal, the woman on the tape.’
‘From Senegal?’ Kate pursed her lips. ‘I suppose it is possible... Who told you such a thing?’
‘Someone in the linguistics department.’ Rebus ejected the tape. ‘Are there many Senegalese in Edinburgh?’
‘I’m the only one I know of.’ Kate stared at the cassette. ‘What has this woman done?’
Rebus was making a show of perusing her collection of CDs. There was a whole rack of them, plus further teetering piles on the windowledge. ‘You like your music, Kate.’
‘I like to dance.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I can see that.’ In fact, what he could see were the names of bands and performers completely unknown to him. He straightened up. ‘You don’t know anyone else from Senegal?’
‘I know there are some in Glasgow... What has she done?’
‘Just what you heard on the tape — made an emergency call. Someone she knew was murdered, and now we need to talk to her.’
‘Because you think she did it?’
‘You’re the psychologist here — what do you think?’
‘If she had killed him, why would she then make the call to police?’
Rebus nodded. ‘That’s pretty well what we think. All the same, she may have information.’ Rebus had taken note of everything, from Kate’s array of jewellery to the new-smelling leather satchel. He looked around for photos of the parents he presumed were paying for it all. ‘Family back in Senegal, Kate?’
‘Yes, in Dakar.’
‘That’s where the rally finishes, right?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And your family... you keep in touch with them?’
‘No.’
‘Oh? So you’re supporting yourself?’ She glared at him.
‘Sorry... nosiness is a hazard of the job. How are you liking Scotland?’
‘It’s a much colder place than Senegal.’
‘I’d imagine it is.’
‘I am not talking about the climate merely.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘So you can’t help me then, Kate?’
‘I am truly sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ He placed a business card on the desk. ‘But if a stranger from home should suddenly cross your path...’
‘I will be sure to tell you.’ She’d risen from the bed, apparently eager to see him on his way.
‘Well, thanks again.’ Rebus stretched a hand towards her. When she took it, her own was cold and clammy. And as the door closed behind him, Rebus wondered about the look in her eyes, a look very much of relief.
Edmunds was sitting on the topmost stair, arms wrapped around his knees. Rebus apologised, giving his explanation. Edmunds didn’t say anything till they were back outside, making for the barrier and Rebus’s car. Eventually, he turned to Rebus.
‘Is that right, about DNA from cigarette papers?’
‘How the hell should I know, Andy? But it put the fear of God into that wee toerag, and that’s all that matters.’
The porn had gone to Divisional HQ in Livingston. There were three other women officers in the viewing room, and Siobhan saw that this made it an uncomfortable experience for the dozen or so men. The only available TV had an eighteen-inch screen, meaning they’d to cluster round it. The men stayed tight-lipped for the most part, or chewed on their pens, keeping jokes to a minimum. Les Young spent most of his time pacing the floor behind them, arms folded, peering down at his shoes, as if wanting to dissociate himself from the whole enterprise.
Some of the films were commercially made, bought in from America and the Continent. One was in German, another Japanese, the latter featuring school uniforms and girls who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen.
‘Kiddie porn,’ was one officer’s comment. He would ask for an occasional freeze-frame, using a digital camera to take a photo of the relevant face.
One of the DVDs was badly filmed and edited. It showed a suburban living room. One couple on the green leather sofa, another on the shag-pile carpet. Another woman, darker-skinned, crouched topless by the electric fire, appearing to masturbate as she watched. The camera was all over the place. At one point, the cameraman’s hand came into shot so he could squeeze one woman’s breast. The soundtrack, which until then had been a series of mumbles, grunts and wheezings, picked up his question.